


Test of Depths

by SpiffytheSpook



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Blood Drinking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiffytheSpook/pseuds/SpiffytheSpook
Summary: Everyone has depths of depravity. It's plainer than day that Glass is screwed up, but she'd like to think she's not so sick. She is. Henry wouldloveto show her the depths.





	Test of Depths

**Author's Note:**

> Necro isnt really my thing, but I was reading a fic that incuded some as an aside...and I thought of this scenario. What can I say? I like exploring demented and crazy stuff. 
> 
> Glass is an old OC of mine. I will hopefully be able to write some of her backstory later, or at least more of this ship. I do own this character. I do not own the Marvel universe or Dark Beast.
> 
> Rated mature cause no clothes come off and the sexual description is basically absent.

Henry held a vial of green-brown serum precariously between thumb and forefinger nails – long ones that nearly resembled claws. Occasionally he would trim them back, but he rather liked indulging in the beastly vise they aided. He’d never taken issue with appearing the monster, as his counterpart Hank did. In fact, he’d encouraged that since the beginning, in his home universe, long gone by now. Funny how some things never changed…his image…

This serum. Death was hardly different in this universe from his origin.

He’d developed the serum a universe ago, to be used as a sort of decoy. One injected this particular version (he’d developed a capsule for EMFs and soldiers, easier to carry…unnecessary on this relatively peaceful Earth) and had roughly an hour to use its effects for their purpose. The formula itself was frighteningly stable. Its use, however, was highly risky due to the nature of the effects. Prelate Scott Summers had used it once, if Henry recalled correctly. Ballsy young tactician…and good at it…if incredibly annoying for the dark McCoy. If any others had attempted use, their strategies had proved inferior and they hadn’t survived to report the success.

Many test subjects had actually died when he initially developed the correct mix for the serum. None really _had_ to die this time, as McCoy recalled the formula with incredible precision…but what fun was a little pet project without some death? So, five corpses lay scattered in various pieces, in various parts of New York city. After he’d successfully run the tests on the serum, he had documented what he wanted from the subjects’ reactions, then had his fun playing operation, spontaneous combustion, blah blah blah. Petty, trivial games…not unlike the ordinary person’s Monopoly.

Now, he was setting up for yet another game, slightly less petty and trivial and far more psychological.

His roommate was a pretty little psychotic mess. How could he characterize her? Hm…nihilistic, chronically anxious, paranoid and mildly agoraphobic, susceptible to manipulation…at the moment, highly dependent. Had severee daddy issues, stemming from hell knew precisely what; and chronic traumatic amnesia. He suspected that she was either bipolar or had dissociative personality…but she could as easily be demon – or alien, or any other entity – possessed. The _other half_ certainly seemed convinced that it was a separate person who possessed her.

In short, she was a bag full of cats, which was ever so fun to poke at. He’d always either drowned or tortured cats – not so fond of them – but Glass was useful enough to prompt his laziness. Why waste her good genes? They were almost as complex as her psyche. Why kill his host? Her basement was quite comfortable, and her paranoia meant an excellent security system. Henry wouldn’t complain about that – he preferred not to have ridiculously powered heroes hunting him down. She fed him, too, and was endlessly convinced that she owed him for something. 

He chuckled to himself. Tabby didn’t seem to realize just how pitiful she was – providing abundantly while he strung her along with meager affections…just enough to keep her devoted and obsessed, never enough to satisfy her obsession and need. 

Recently, he’d noticed her airing further to the side of destruction. As an assassin, she already leaned toward the dark side, if one liked to think of it that way. Her job, however, allowed her a structure in which she could operate and excuse herself. She’d explained in various manners and at length that she _didn’t particularly find pleasure in killing_ , and wasn’t particularly _aggressive_. It was a job and satiated her innate bloodlust so that she could control it…not that she really could, with how badly she starved herself.

Henry had been prodding her for several months now, asking her to hand over a scalpel, to prep syringes. Initially, she wouldn’t participate even in that without some… _convincing._ Praise. A proverbial pat on the head went a long way in a girl starving for attention. 

Now, she was willing to hold open a ribcage for him, to make incisions… and if in the right sort of mood he could convince her to aid him when he operated on children…something she had balked from even watching a year ago. He’d broken through the fragile barriers she’d set up for herself, prompting her to demolish some of the terribly fractured identity she’d built post-amnesia. Three years to break what he estimated was a 20-year structure. He could’ve done it so much faster, but then he would’ve had nothing left to play with all this time. 

Polished, classy Glass had deep depravity just like any other creature…depravity to match or perhaps exceed Henry’s own. She hadn’t hidden and controlled it as tightly as Hank McCoy had, no – Tabby was no paragon of morality, never had been, never claimed to be. But she’d convinced herself that she was capable of denying her depravity, of holding it back. She couldn’t disguise it from Henry’s thorough observation, of course, and her weak will held no candle to his surgical exposure. He saw the arousal she denied herself when she had her hands in a gutted, screaming body. He’d pointed it out, coaxed it out of hiding, nourished it into something larger and more vile. 

_Deliciously_ vile.

He’d seen her cool curiosity of chilled corpses, watched her cradle bloody little bodies and sing lullabies to their lifeless ears when she thought she was alone. She was _deeply_ depraved, deeply disturbed. And if there was one thing she hated worse than recognizing such things about herself, it was when others recognized them. 

Henry recognized a pretty corpse, certainly. He didn’t screw them. But he’d bet she would. 

With another amused little chuckle, he gulped a ‘last’ mouthful of cold coffee and injected the serum into his arm. Henry leaned back comfortably. He did not close his eyes. Within minutes, he was paralyzed within his own body. His heartrate slowed to virtually nothing, grey-black skin paled what little it could, temperature started to decrease. His thoughts slowed to a crawl, brain still active but awaiting stimuli.

\-------

Tabitha was in a decent state of mind recently. She’d fed abundantly a month ago, so the blood cravings were still mild enough to ignore. She had spent three weeks engaged in a job, which she had completed two days ago. Another client contacted her today for a hit they wanted placed late next week. The productivity always kept her from depression. Henry, upon whom more of her mood relied than she liked to admit, hadn’t been testy lately. This morning, in fact, he’d acknowledged her presence when she brought him coffee, and engaged her in brief conversation and physical contact. 

Hoping for the same…or maybe more, Tabitha brewed a fresh cup of coffee for him. She watched it for the entire six minutes, until the drips slowed to one every 30 seconds. Then she poured from the carafe into one of his mugs – he’d brought a small box of them when he first came to her place, and gathered ten more in the time since. He had peculiar taste, in her opinion…but most of them were supposed to be humorous. Perhaps they weren't peculiar to others, only to Tabitha because of her ineptitude in humor. She hadn’t selected this mug for the saying or image, but because it felt comfortable in her hand. 

She descended the stairs to the basement, slid past her tiny laundry room and through the concealed door there. The house itself rose two stories above ground, and was rather small. The basement ran far past the house’s limits, and under the street. Using blueprints from the city, she’d enlarged a small part of it far enough to reach a sewer wall, which Henry had then broke through. With her pestering, he’d at least closed the hole off with a proper door. It kept out some of the stench, and the rats. How he tolerated – and preferred – to travel through sewers was beyond her. He’d teased many times that it _offended her sensibilities._ She begrudgingly conceded that was true.

Most of the original basement remained her workspace – half was an armory, the other half an amateur bio-chemistry lab. Tabitha had discovered her knowledge of chemistry and human biology and genetics shortly after she woke up without memories. In the seventeen years since, she’d continued to refresh and pursue that knowledge. Among her armory was a large collection of homemade explosives and bio-weapons. Henry left her weapons well enough alone, but she was under no illusions…if it ever tickled his interest, there was little she could do to stop him from using her wares. While it would annoy her greatly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world…at least metaphorically. 

She suspected he was entirely capable of destroying life in the world.

His presence and insight were very valuable to her when she was developing new projects. He really was a genius, and specialized in genetics unlike his counterpart (Hank had a much more rounded intellect, from various languages to astronomy). Tabitha had gone from amateur or intermediate knowledge of genetics and biology to rather advanced. Her chemistry was certainly advanced before he found her. 

There was a wall and door between her part of the basement and his. She’d had it constructed recently and immediately killed the workers when they completed the work. The door was not properly secured like the rest of the building – security was on house and the basement entrance. If an intruder got past that, whether they saw Tabitha’s arsenal or Henry’s experiments, they were screwed anyways. Mainly, she’d erected the barrier so that she could better ignore the screams.

She’d never liked the screams, but recently they were inspiring less disgust and disturbance, and more… well. She supposed she was so used to them that they had become like background music, and she’d always taken some small pleasure in background music. 

Tabitha disapproved of her own appreciation of others’ screams of agony.

Though, she had on many occasions screamed in the pleasure of agony. After all, without the ability to taste, without such oddities as happiness and laughter that others claimed to experience genuinely, without sensitivity to alcohol or opioids such as anti-depressants or cigarettes….Tabitha experienced very little pleasure. She experienced pain the strongest, and pain was exquisite and strong, especially when combined with physical touch. 

Her breath hitched just at the thought of pain like that. It was all the pleasure she could have. The bitter, hateful, dark part of her wanted all the pleasure of others to become agony, so they could experience her miserable reality.

She knew her own bitterness…so she muzzled that part of herself and erected a wall to block out the screams. 

Now, she passed through the door in that wall to give Henry his cup of coffee…

And stopped in place at the sight of him.

She stared for a good three minutes. His eyes were partially open and lifeless, his dark grey skin lighter and pallid, his lips a darker, nearly purpled color. In the silence of the basement, she could hear the lack of breath and heartbeat. His chest neither rose nor fell.

As in a haze, she approached him slowly. Once standing close – closer than she would invite herself to his space if he were alive – she blinked out of her reverie. Tabitha looked down at the mug in her hand and took a sip of the hot liquid. She set it down on his desk, and leaned cautiously down to his face, moving to inquisitively look him square in the eye. She blew on him abruptly, and he did not blink. She backed away and clapped her hands loudly and closely to his nose. He still did not blink. 

After a couple more moments of staring, she poked his jaw cautiously, firmly. She yanked her hand back the moment she touched him, expecting him to grab her wrist and pin her down like he might if he was actually alive. A deep breath, then she backhanded his face. His head fell to the side limply. When she still suffered no repercussions, she leaned her ear to his mouth and listened. At the same time, she pressed her hands to his furry, shirtless chest. Her skin was highly sensitive to vibration, but she picked up nothing. Not a single, weak heartbeat. He was a couple degrees colder than he ought to be, though. 

He was dead. 

Glass looked around for signs of intrusion, and saw nothing misplaced or suspicious. She noticed the empty syringe on his desk, and regarded him curiously. Henry wouldn’t commit suicide. He enjoyed life far too much, wasn’t afraid of anyone so far as she could tell. An experiment gone wrong, perhaps? Though that was also unlikely. He was exceptionally good at what he did, and took no large life-threatening risks like this. 

Ah. Perhaps she was hallucinating again. 

Tabitha pulled out a throwing knife and dug the tip harshly into her thigh, away from any arteries or large veins. She bit her cheek, then her tongue. She tasted her own blood. Nothing changed. The Void was nowhere to be seen or heard. So she took the knife to his left pectoral, splitting the skin and flesh like butter. The body…Henry’s body…didn’t flinch whatsoever. Blood oozed from the wound more slowly than if a heart had been pumping it through, but not as viscous as a long-dead corpse - too warm for that yet. The scent curled up to her nose – dead, but fresh and not even a bit rotted – and her pupils blew wide. A tremble in her fingers started, but ceased when she leaned down to lap up the dark liquid. It settled in her stomach like blood from a very fresh kill rather than a live one. 

She moaned very quietly as she drank her fill, and slid onto his lap. His thick thighs were spread wide in his typical stance. She straddled his right leg, holding on to his shoulder with one hand and waist with the other. The scent of his blood and musk filled her nose, made her light-headed. Certainly, his blood wasn’t the best quality – much his DNA was altered or damaged from various physique-changing experiments he’d performed on himself. He had impurities. But mutant blood was mutant blood, and Glass craved it too strongly to resist filling up on what was already dead and gone. He’s gone.

She swallowed a large mouthful of blood and pulled back to look at his face. Henry was gone. “Huh.”

For several minutes, she ransacked his desk. He’d left her no instructions. When she came to that conclusion, she sat back on his thigh and stared at him more. The place where she’d slapped him was bruising post-mortem. Had he been alive, it would’ve bloomed and healed over the past twenty minutes. He had something of an accelerated healing rate, though nothing like Wolverine and Sabretooth’s lines, and not even quite as fast as Hank McCoy’s…as much as he’d hate it if she said so. 

Tabitha placed her hands on his shoulders, and slowly leaned in to his neck. She nosed into his fur and breathed deeply. He should’ve bathed yesterday, but she didn’t mind too much. He smelled musky. Smelled like patients’ blood, rubbing alcohol, coffee. It brought back memories of operating with him, of being pressed – slammed – against the wall, ground into the floor, of riding him in a stolen car, witty conversation during grocery shopping. Insults that twisted her stomach with a sick sort of affection. 

“This is unlike you. Dying in a basement of something you developed,” she murmured into his skin. She kissed under his ear and held him more tightly. “You fight to live. This is strange. I expected you to die of a terrible fight wound…or at Hank’s hand. I thought, if he was ever going to kill…it would be one of us. I’m not important enough to him, of course…so you…”

She nosed the small gold hoops that hugged the pointed tip and the lobe of his ear, and her fingers worked over the gold beads in his hair. “I wanted to know these stories,” she murmured, slowly moving her lips over his cheek until she could kiss his. His jaw was lax, tongue and lips cooled and unmoving but moist. Kissing them was different even from kissing him in his sleep. No reflexive responses followed, no noises, no warmth. No waking up with a smirk and scolding her before he grasped her ass and pressed his hips against hers. 

Thinking of that made her hot and wet. He had died without an erection, not that she was certain she would’ve wanted to put that inside her…extraordinary immunity or not, inserting dead tissue still seemed…unhealthy. She rutted slowly against his thigh, instead, through her thin dress pants and his denim. Her breath caught. “Your fur is rough. Hank’s is silky. I’d ride his bare in a heartbeat, dead or not…” she groaned softly and pulled one of hands – heavy with its dead weight – between her legs. She ground down against the outside of his thumb. “Henry. Mmh…”

A little thought in the back of her mind bothered her as she sought pleasure, a sticky mess building in the glossy material of her pants. “…what can I do now?” she murmured, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “I can still feel where you broke my arm and leg, after I broke you out of the prison Hank put you in…that I helped put you in…I’ve never felt so…”

Oh, the thought of it had her on edge. “So… owned. Possessed. No one’s going to fix me now. Or…or tear me apart like you.”

Even as she was speaking, the reality didn’t hit her. It was like commenting from the outside, making an observation about a different woman. Not herself. 

“You never cared, I know,” she spoke quietly, breathlessly against his ear. “You only care about Hank and the games you played with him. That’s fine. I was pleased to tag along.”

She was getting so close. So few things registered as pleasure to the damaged – missing – opioid receptors in her brain, but this did. She chased after it like a man starved, rutting down more vigorously until she reached the precipice. Tabitha clutched his shoulders and shuddered, closing her eyes and savoring the brief, vague sensations in her body. Heart rushing, skin tingling where she still rubbed, and the tiny burst of bliss. 

It was next to nothing, but still so much more pleasure than she could otherwise experience. Then, it was ruined. 

Glass winced and clutched her head at the sudden, splitting agony that tore through her mind. The voice practically _screamed_ at her.

_**You stupid animal! I need him.**_

Tabitha couldn’t find her own voice. She couldn’t move against it – the Void never moved like such a hurricane against her. She saw it tearing out of the corner where she restrained it, like pitch black smoke out of the cracks of a door. The door opened, and she was tossed in….

Then she was paralyzed, only able to watch. Worse than usual, her mouth and throat seized. She could barely think out to it. 


End file.
